


a matter of time

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Inhuman Grant Ward, Original Character(s), Season/Series 01, Season/Series 03, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-21 10:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: One life can change the world. One life can cost a billion. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made.





	1. prologue

 

_“The future is not set. There’s no fate but what we make for ourselves.”_

_—Terminator 2: Judgment Day_

 

 

Just like Fitz thought, there’s only one guard left down here, and for once luck is with him because she relaxes at the sight of him and lowers her gun.

“What’s happening up there?” she asks while he sweeps down the line of containment units. There are no alarms down here—don’t want the prisoners knowing there’s an attack on the base—but when the alarm goes off, each of the guards receives an alert on their comms letting them know the severity of the attack and whether they need to hold position or help up top. This case is definitely severe enough to warrant the latter.

“You might not want to do that,” he says, nodding to her lowered sidearm. “Hive’s here. He’s releasing his terrigen compound into the base. Floors five and six are already compromised.”

She goes a little green around the gills and glances into containment unit three. Fitz can’t help doing the same. With all the ruckus in there, it’s taken all his control not to look in up to now. There are more of what Radcliffe calls Primitives on the prison level above this one, but this particular victim of Hive’s genetic tampering got the private room. Not that it’s all that comfortable anymore with broken glass everywhere, the bed shattered to pieces, and every wall dented beyond repair. The Primitives can sense their master nearby.

Fitz tears his eyes away and moves forward.

“You can’t go in there,” the guard says, sounding slightly frantic. She’s worried about him. Probably all the guards are, as much time as he’s been spending down here these last few days.

“I’m not going in there,” he says, still tapping at the controls.

In his peripheral vision he sees her hand tighten around her sidearm. Smart. If it turns out he’s an Inhuman, got a whiff of that compound upstairs, he’s already the enemy. Only he’s not.

Air hisses as the seal on containment unit four breaks. She jumps away, surprised by how close it is. “I’m going in _there,_ ” Fitz says, pointing to the doors as they slide open.

She could, if she really wanted to, stop him opening the second set of doors by keeping the outer ones unlocked. She doesn’t though and Fitz is grateful for that. He’s kinda on a time limit here.

He chuckles at the little joke while he steps inside.

Ward doesn’t so much as flinch at his arrival, just keeps watching some history documentary on Netflix. (How the hell are they still getting Netflix when the base is locked down? Fitz would make a mental note to ask Daisy about it if they survive but, well…) For a second Fitz just stares. This isn’t the Ward who was in Vault D. He’s not wild and crazed, holding onto sanity by a string. He’s still _crazy_ , that’s a given. But it’s quieter now, almost peaceful. He’s perfectly composed, doesn’t even seem to mind the explosive collar around his neck.

Hunter used to call him the crazy cultist in their attic, back when he was still being held at the Cocoon.

“I need your help,” Fitz says, figuring he’d better not beat around the bush.

“Not interested.”

In here, with two containment unit walls between them and the Primitive next door, the sounds of chaos are dulled but they’re still audible, enough that Ward’s got the sound on his TV turned up a little too high.

Fitz stomps over to grab the control off his bed and shuts the damn thing off entirely. Ward gives him a bemused look that reminds him just what the power discrepancy is here. Ward’s powers are useless in this room but he’s never needed them to be a threat. Not that it matters if Ward decides to break his neck in retaliation; they’re all either dead or enslaved anyway.

He tosses the control back down onto the bed next to Ward and starts tapping at the tablet he brought with him, bringing up the footage he needs. “Listen to me. There’s an Inhuman on base right now, one of the original Inhumans. He calls himself Hive-”

“And he’s planning on enslaving us all,” Ward says calmly, taking the wind out of Fitz’s sails. He shrugs. “Nobody really _shares_ information with me, but they’re all pretty eager to tell me anything that they think might piss me off or scare me.”

Right. Hunter probably spent the entire flight from the Cocoon telling Ward all about how they were clearing it out to protect its inhabitants from Hive, telling him he should be grateful to return to the base he spent six months as a prisoner. Fitz is guessing Ward wasn’t.

Not that Ward’s much of anything these days. If Fitz had to put a name to it, he’d call Ward numb. All that fire the berserker staff left in him is long gone in the wake of terrigenesis and he genuinely doesn’t seem to care what happens to him anymore.

Fitz can only hope it’s an act.

As if to prove him wrong, Ward stretches his legs and arms, then relaxes into a lounge even less concerned than the one he was in when Fitz arrived. “You want me to teleport you to safety or something? Not very SHIELD of you to run from a fight.”

“I think we’ve been wrong about your powers,” he says, again deciding to get to the point. “I don’t think it’s teleportation.”

He holds out the tablet and, just as expected, Ward’s mouth quirks up in amusement. “Um, Fitz?” On the screen are side-by-side security camera views from the university where they captured him, timed up to show him leaving one room and appearing in another halfway across the campus.

Fitz backs it up a few seconds, this time showing the jump frame-by-frame. “Watch the clock.”

The two are synced and at the slower speed it’s easy to see that he disappears from the southeast lab at 13:21:48 but arrives in the library at 13:21:46.

“So one of ‘em’s off,” Ward says, but he’s sitting up now and doesn’t show any sign of laying back down.

“It’s the same computer. The same clock. You traveled through _time_ , Ward.”

He lifts his arms wide. “A whole two seconds. Big whoop.”

Fitz grips the tablet tight, struggling with his composure. He knew convincing Ward to do anything for anyone else was gonna be tricky.

“If you did two seconds, you can do more. I’m hoping a lot more.”

Ward rolls his eyes, for the first time looking frustrated. It feels good to get a real reaction from him, even better when that reaction includes a tacit agreement that he might be able to do it. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m an Inhuman. That means I can’t exactly go back in time to stop Hydra’s big bad god for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Fitz says, fighting down the eagerness in his own voice. “You just have to take me back to last year. If I stop Simmons from going to Maveth none of this ever happens.”

Ward’s expression shifts. Fitz can see something click in his head, so he plows on, hoping he hasn’t shot himself in the foot.

“We save her, then Hive never comes back, Daisy doesn’t get enslaved.” He glances over his shoulder to the window view of the next pod. The attention seems to aggravate the Primitive, sending her into a new wave of fury. “No one ever gets changed.”

“Why now?” Ward asks, sounding more like his old self again. “Simmons was gone for what? Six months? You could’ve come to me then.”

“She was still…”

Fitz shakes his head slowly while the Primitive’s fists rain down on the window. That same glass is what they used to contain Hive and an entire group of them were able to shatter it less than an hour ago. Eventually she’ll break through.

Not that it’ll do her much good. There’s only a narrow break between the units, not enough for a person to squeeze through, and then there’s still the glass on Ward’s unit to get past if she wanted to get in here. She’s not especially bright; none of them are.

“Still what?” Ward snaps. He throws a derisive glance to the front window where the guard is watching with concern. “Alive? Did Hive kill Simmons before you could get up the stones to tell her how you felt? Cry me a river.”

Fitz whirls, the sharply mocking tone hitting him exactly where Ward means it to. But even Ward is surprised by the fist he throws in his face.

It hurts. A lot. But the pain is good. It grounds him.

“Why do you think there’s only one down here?” he asks while Ward touches his cheek like he’s never felt it before. Fitz throws his aching hand back towards the window. “That- that _thing_ in there was Jemma. And she was the only person who might’ve been able to undo that.” He blinks rapidly. This isn’t the time to get emotional. “You once said I should make my move while I had the chance. I’m asking you to give me a second one.”

Ward makes no answer. But he doesn’t agree either.

“And,” Fitz says, figuring he might as well try one last plea to Ward’s sense of self-preservation, “even if you manage to escape before Hive can sway you, he’s pretty definitely going to take the rest of the planet with the resources we have here. That means there’s nowhere for you to hide. _Everyone_ on this planet is either gonna die or be his slave. There’s no in between.”

Ward grins in that sharp way of his, the one that says he’s not getting his way but he wants to pretend he’s still got some control. He looks from the guard to Fitz and slaps his knees to stand. “Whatever. I always knew you idiots would need my help to save the world again one of these days.”

Fitz moves for the door before Ward can think better of it. He’s already at the second keypad before he hits a new problem.

“Uh, Fitz?” Ward says. He’s five feet behind, still firmly inside the bulk of the unit. He points to the collar.

Fitz can’t help a grin. He was hoping one day they’d get to tell him. “Yeah, that’s a fake. You didn’t really think we’d blow up your _head_ , did you, Ward?”

He goes back to the keypad, fighting down a laugh at the sound of a growl behind him. The collar hits the floor a few seconds later and Ward steps up behind him.

The light above the keypad flashes red. The lock holds.

“Fitz,” the guard says. “What are you doing?”

He meets her eyes through the window. “It’s our best chance, Kara.” He was hoping she might run upstairs to make a last stand before he got this far; he doesn’t have time to argue her around too. “ _Please_. I’m asking you to trust me.”

She hesitates another moment before muttering something no doubt unkind in Spanish and letting them out.

“Thanks.”

She gives him a weak smile while lifting her gun to aim at Ward. Fitz isn’t sure why. She heard the whole plan, she knows it depends on him using his powers now he’s outside the unit’s dampeners.

“We should try for just after _the Iliad_ went down, if not before. That’s when the monolith was moved to the Playground. You think you can go that far in one jump?”

Ward’s eyeing Kara while she subtly puts herself between the two of them. Again, not sure why. Ward could just teleport around her if he wanted to hurt him and Fitz is gonna have to go with him in a second anyway.

“Yeah,” Ward says. “Have you considered that might not work out the way you think it will?”

A tendril of fear snakes its way up Fitz’s spine. “Why wouldn’t it? We save Simmons from the monolith, Hydra never figures out the way back. Simple.”

Ward gives him that sharp smile again. “Someone as smart as you should really know these things don’t always go according to plan. You might save the woman you love but lose her along the way. Time’s funny like that.”

Something about the way he says it, almost like he knows from experience. “Ward-”

He steps back, out of Fitz or even Kara’s reach. “I’m gonna save the world, Fitz, you can count on that. Just not the way you want me to.” He throws Kara a wink and blinks out of the hallway.

“Well,” Kara says. “Fuck.”

Fitz stares at the spot Ward last occupied. All his hopes, snuffed out because he foolishly turned the one person he knew better than to trust. Behind him, Simmons is still pounding at the walls of her cage, almost like she’s yelling at him for being such a dunce.

He’s wondered, these last few days, if there might be some of her still buried in that monstrosity. He hopes not. She would’ve hated being turned into one of Hive’s loyal pets.

Kara’s hand finds Fitz’s. There’s more pounding now, not just from Simmons. More Primitives are in the elevator shaft, coming for them. It’s only a matter of time.

 


	2. the butterfly moves

Grant takes his first breath of fresh air in … well, time gets a little relative with powers like his so what’s the point in counting? It’s been a while, is the point.

He takes his breath—and promptly chokes on the smell of asphalt. He turns to see a mammoth barely a stone’s throw away. Terror grips his lungs until the sound of nearby traffic penetrates his brain and he realizes the mammoths are fake, statues floating lazily in the tar pits. He turns again, sees the art museum. He’s in LA.

He drops his hand to his throat, feels the chafing skin at his shoulders from that damn collar. He could kill Coulson.

A chuckle rolls out of him. Coulson was probably dead before he left. Or a mindless drone like Simmons.

And just like that the mission sweeps back in. Stop Hive from ever coming back. Save the future.

He leaves the park, moving past lines of kids on field trips and out onto the streets where a guy wearing scrubs and no shoes will be just another LA weirdo and not a menace to America’s youth. He’s got a locker at Union Station, but he’s not sure he wants to use it. What if his past self ends up needing it? Besides, Grant has no intention of being in this time period long enough to need anything like money or ID.

And thinking of that, he has no idea _when_ he landed. Back when he used to jump all the time, spent months and years trying to get what he wanted out of the time stream before giving it up at good enough, he could pinpoint his jumps down to the second. But he’s been in that damn cell for months and his powers feel brand new again. He could be anywhen.

He reaches out like he would if he was gonna make another jump. Not that he can; unless he’s planning on heading back to the future (which he isn’t until his mission’s complete, seeing as he’s likely to end up brainwashed the second he lands), there’ll be no using his powers while there are two of him. But the jolt that snaps him back into his own skin tells him his past self is pretty close. Not good since the last time he was in LA it was when Skye spent the better part of a day conning him in that diner.

He’s gone too far, past any of the jumps he’s made before.

For a second the frustration is enough to freeze him in place—all that work, _wasted—_ but it’s only a second because there’s a good chance this means Simmons is close. The last four times he was in LA all involved the team, either because he was on it or they were hunting him down, and all of those times were before Simmons put any real effort into physical training.

He sets out again with renewed purpose. All he’s gotta do is track her down and then make sure he doesn’t leave any evidence behind to implicate his past self in the murder. Easy.

 

=====

 

“Mind if I sit here?”

Jemma looks up from her magazine and has to shade her eyes against the bright sun. The man standing beside her table is tall and fit, with an easy smile that sends a bit of a thrill through her. He’s also holding a steaming cup and would likely prefer to enjoy it while it’s still warm.

“Yes, of course.” She pushes the metal chair out with her toes and he quickly pulls it the rest of the way to sit.

He’s even more attractive without the sun half-blinding her. “Any good gossip?” he asks, looking to her magazine.

She flashes the cover with its very scintillating picture of Venus at him. “Not unless you count the continuing drama in the letters to the editor over last quarter’s piece on black holes.”

His embarrassed surprise turns to a chuckle. “Oh no. Black holes? How dare they.”

“It’s very controversial! There are many scientists who question their existence.”

“Really?” He takes a sip of his drink.

“Oh yes. You see-” In her head, Jemma can hear Skye groaning. “Sorry. You wanted a seat so you could finish your drink, not listen to me talk about astrophysics.”

“Actually.” He sets the drink down and leans across the table in a conspiratorial sort of way that has her hackles rising. “I wanted this seat so I could flirt with you. The astrophysics is just a bonus.”

Oh, he is very good.

“I’m Jemma,” she says.

“Rigo.” He takes her hand to kiss the back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jemma.”

More than an hour later, after they’ve discussed his work as a legal aide, the potential existence of black holes again, and the US immigration process—he’s originally from Brazil, as it turns out—he makes to stand.

“I’m running dry,” he says, tipping his empty cup. “Can I get you another…?”

“Earl Grey.”

His face falls. “I cannot go in there and splurge on a cup of hot water. You’re getting a pastry too.”

“That’s not necessary-”

He’s backing between the tables for the door. “Five seconds to pick one before I pick for you. Three. Two.”

“A muffin!”

He disappears into the shade of the cafe’s interior. Their fellow customers are looking at her in amusement but she isn’t bothered. She’s having a very enjoyable morning flirting with a very charming man. In fact, if this were later in the day she’d seriously be considering allowing him to take her home. But as it’s early morning yet, she’s thinking she’ll let slip her plans—a trip to the nearby museum and, if there’s time, a walking tour of whatever areas of the city she can reach. He’s already wasted much of the morning here with her, he might be inclined to skiv off work entirely. And then they can see where the day—or the night—takes them.

A passing body bumps her shoulder, erasing her girlish grin. There’s ample room on the sidewalk to move around the tables and they’re well past rush hour when bodies were constantly moving by.

“Sorry,” she says sternly.

The man twists his hunched shoulders, giving her a brief view of his face. Her heart pounds in her chest. He turns forward again, but with a slight tilt of his head she takes to mean he wants her to follow. All this time talking to Rigo and she’s only once had to catch herself back from saying something she oughtn’t, but one look and she’s nodding in agreement to what is obviously meant to be a covert move.

She grabs her purse from the back of her chair, along with the jacket she abandoned when the sun moved out over the patio. She pauses once on her feet to glance into the cafe. She can’t see Rigo through the tinted windows, but she hopes he likes whatever muffin he chooses for her and that he doesn’t take her running off on him too personally. In fact-

She takes the extra two seconds to dig in her purse for a pen and leaves an apology and a thanks across Venus’ face on her magazine. Then she runs.

Ward is waiting around the next corner, looking rough and hurried in a hoodie that’s obviously seen better days. Where did he even find such a thing? It’s far too misshapen to be his and she knows they don’t keep anything like it in the Bus’s wardrobe.

“What’s happened?” she asks, breathless. “Why didn’t you just call me?” She reaches into her purse, suddenly worried something’s happened to her phone. She knows better than to turn it off but what if it was stolen? What if Rigo was simply an especially flirtatious thief and she’s put sensitive SHIELD intelligence at risk by letting him charm her?

But her phone is in her bag, still on and receiving a signal. So what-

“Oh, _Ward_.” He’s moved into the small shaft of direct sunlight the alley affords and he looks … she doesn’t even know how to describe it. His face is worn in a way it wasn’t when he advised her to be careful this morning. He looks _old_. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?” She reaches for the front of the hoodie, knowing he’ll never volunteer that information freely. “Are the others all right? Has something happened to Coulson?”

Coulson is no longer on bed rest but he _is_ still on the mend from his horrid ordeal with Centipede last month. If he’s taken a turn while she’s been off flirting shamelessly with civilians, she’ll never forgive herself.

“I’m fine, Simmons,” Ward says. “Everyone’s fine.” He shakes her hands off, straightening the hoodie and removing something from the pocket. It’s a piece of broken glass, as long as her hand but only half as wide, and he holds it awkwardly with his sleeve pulled down to protect his palm and fingers.

He’s touching her, using his other hand to move her hair over her shoulders. It’s another oddity on top of his appearance and his statement—what would he be doing here if everyone were all right?

“Ward,” she says, resting a hand over his heart—beating steadily, that’s good, “tell me what’s-”

She sees the men at the same moment he hears them. He turns, putting her behind him as the two hulking figures come down the alley towards them. It’s clear from their intent gazes and menacing postures that they’re not simply passing through. These men are looking for a fight.

She holds onto Ward’s jacket, thinking that if they can just get into the open street there might be safety there. Whoever these men are, surely they won’t want to make a scene.

“Well this is convenient.”

Jemma whirls. “Rigo?” He’s blocking the mouth of the alley, him and another man with the same grim set to his jaw as the others.

Ward moves ahead of her. “Ricardo.”

“I gotta say, _Alex_ , I was getting worried there. Your girl here was coming onto me pretty strong. I thought I was gonna have to send little pieces of her to you in boxes to get my message across, and now she brings me right to you. Thanks, beautiful.”

The wink he sends her might as well be a slap. The charming man from the cafe is gone, replaced by a man as frightening as any enemy she’s faced since joining the team.

“What message is that?” Ward asks.

“That we have unfinished business.” Rigo or Ricardo or whatever his name is gives a cold nod over their heads.

Jemma’s head is still spinning from Ward’s worrying arrival and Rigo’s shift in demeanor, it isn’t helped at all by the sudden shove that has her tripping into the wall. She holds herself up, watching in awe and terror while Ward fights hand-to-hand against the two men who’ve come up behind them.

The shard of glass flashes in his fist, disappearing and reappearing between a flurry of punches and kicks. Blood sprays the far wall of the alley, one of the men goes down but his weight carries Ward with him.

“Look out!” she shrieks as the third man comes at him from behind. The body drops with a sickening squelch and Ward just barely avoids a cord wrapping around his throat.

Jemma is being completely useless, standing here like some damsel. She tears her eyes away from the fight, internally wincing at every sound of flesh pounding into flesh, and searches the stray objects and refuse piled up around her for anything that might be used as a weapon. The neck of a bottle pokes out from beneath a wooden slab. She grabs it, discovering it’s been broken at the shoulder just as a hand closes around her ponytail, tugging her up and back.

She lets out a wordless cry, falling into strong arms that crush her to a hard chest. She knows before he speaks that it’s Rigo and feels sick that she ever thought of letting him touch her before.

“Alejandro!” Rigo roars.

Ward is on his feet again. One of the men is clutching a heavily bleeding side, the wound low enough he might not make it even with proper care. The other appears uninjured and the body on the ground hasn’t moved.

Rigo’s hand slides slowly up her chest. Ward’s eyes follow its progress while she struggles not to squirm—it will only satisfy the bastard. When he finally reaches her throat, his fingers close around it. She gasps and gags. Her feet move, her hips shift. She drags her nails over the back of his hand but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Drop it,” Rigo says, sounding impossibly calm past the building roar in her ears, “or you get to watch your lover die. Right here. Right now.”

Her first thought is that this is silly. She isn’t Ward’s lover or his girl or his anything. They’re teammates, nothing more, and here she is about to die over some case of mistaken identity.

Her second thought, when Ward’s eyes find hers, is an echo of her earlier one that he looks so _old_. His gaze shifts between her and Rigo, assessing. In a moment he’ll find just the opening he needs and save her life.

But her vision is growing dim and her third thought crowds out all others: she needs to _breathe_.

She brings her right hand up with all the force she can muster, driving the broken bottle into Rigo’s face. He cries out. They fall apart. She feels flesh tearing against the glass and the warm spray of blood on her neck.

She stumbles around to face him. He’s screaming, saying words she can’t understand either because they’re in another language or because his cheek is flapping like a torn curtain against his teeth or both. Wild eyes fix on her. He lets out an animal sound of rage and pain, reaching for her with a hand dripping blood and saliva, and beneath her, her feet are frozen to the ground. All she can think is that the handsome face she was flirting with not twenty minutes ago is gone forever. He’ll never be able to pass a mirror again without remembering this moment, without remembering her.

A hand grabs hers and she’s running, her shoulder aching as she’s pulled from the alley behind Ward. Pedestrians are a blur they pass right through. A car screams to a stop feet from them and her hand is free. Ward is yelling at the driver, ordering him from the car at the point of a gun. Rigo’s still wailing in the alley. The terrified driver falls to the asphalt while Ward goes on yelling. But that makes no sense, the man’s given up the car-

“Simmons!” The sound of her name snaps her out of her muffled thoughts. “Get in the car!”

She rushes to do as he says, falling into the passenger seat barely a heartbeat before he’s pulling away. A crowd has gathered, blocking the alley from view, so she gets no glimpse of Rigo as they make their escape, but she can still feels his eyes on her. She looks down at her hands and a faint cry catches in her lungs. Her left hand is pale and shaking. Her right is red, tacky with Rigo’s blood, her fingers achingly tight around the neck of the bottle still. She forces them to relax, letting it fall to the floorboards.

 


End file.
